Yesterday
by Nothing But Human
Summary: So she cries because she doesn't want to, and the world doesn't take personal requests from anyone. And it's because the world doesn't take personal requests from anyone she cries, he knows, he's been there, so he's not there for her now. Mello/Halle


There's something so childlike yet irrevocably mature in the way he speaks. She could remember a time when he'd been so young; a kid with explosives to back up his attitude, a spirit so untameable one wouldn't even consider the tought. He was so selfish, every action he took was for the satisfaction of his own throbbing ego – it was just a sick twist of fate, she decided, that everything he did for himself ended up bettering the development of her case in the long run.

Having abandoned every and all moral highground reachable to the human concious, he was yet a dark black shell of a human and more than any CIA agent she had ever worked with. It had shown her that going into battle with ethics and sociably marketed values of 'good' under you wing did not, in fact, give you any extra edge in battle (though she still wasn't ready to admit that the end may just, _just _justify the means.)

She can hear his voice on the line now, can remember how deep and reckless it used to be. Today, it was steady; mature, slightly monotonous but stressing his point, controlled and complex, and somehow comforting – of which, she would never have predicted. He was not a comforting person. He was dark, non-comforming, an antisocial anomally who was neither good nor evil for he did not like being used as a puppet, and he knew (she knew too) that he'd be forced to live up the respective expectations of what he should choose against his better judgement.

No. There was good, there was evil, and he – Mihael – was caught up somewhere in between. He didn't belong. He had belonged, once, fleetingly, as if the whole point of his existance was merely for those few years, as if everything else would be omitted because it didn't really matter. What was he fighting for, anyway? Not Kira, she knew he didn't give two shits about that glorious, holy bullshitter. He was never ears for preaching. He was always eyes for movement, action.

She couldn't explain it, exactly. Maybe he was fighting for Near, maybe. Even if he said so himself, she wouldn't completely take that and believe it. She knew better than to take things at surface-level with Mello. He came of as an idiot, a headstrong and cruel loner who was about as sophisticated as a pile of bricks. Maybe, maybe if you stood upside down and turned your head a certain degree to the right he appeared to be some sort of wannabe, for what he appeared wasn't really what he was. As cliché as it was (and so, as much as it bugged her) Halle couldn't accept responsibility for changing that – something she still regrets – but she knows, and she hopes that he knows that she knows. She knows what he's like, really, under all that leather and feathers and melted skin.

She's been thinking for too long; there's a slightly uptight push in his tone, a sense of desperation not new to his character.

"Hal."

She's worried, worried he realizes how awkward the whole situation is coming off for her, senses the tension in her grip on the reciever. 'Why are you doing this?' would be nice, but she'll let him go. He'll go anyway; she'd just be saving time, time being the most constraining dimension of the four in his eyes (it'd been reflected from him, bounced back at her, as had many other small traits and opinions). "Sorry."

"It's agreed, then?" He didn't need her approval, but asked anyway, because he's alive and maybe he wants to stress that point, wants her to know that for all it's worth, he's still alive now and will be for just a little longer. He may not be living for himself, but he's living, he'll cling onto that (she might react quicker if he does. Might.)

"Understood." She didn't have to say anything more; he wasn't expecting her to. There's a silence. He could cut the conversation off now and be done with it, but there's something more, something unspoken that means nothing to a man without a life but something that calms all that remains of the life he'd lived: there's a tear in her eye and a stinging in his heart, and if this is only life and his time is up, he'll indulge in the games for just a little longer, to ease away the pain before he is cast for judgement to neither Heaven nor Hell.

"Mmm." It's nothing but everything. It's a push, showing that he's not ready to end the conversation just yet because it may be the last opportunity for him. The two stay still, neither waiting for a reply from the other, it's just what it is – as is life, he thinks, and so it's okay. Everything is okay.

"I love you." And then she ruins everything. The cold, cool air he'd brought up around himself, the peace he'd made with the universe, momentarily nothing. He feels so used up, so overdue for a death from the inability to feel much, and the fact that all he feels now has been numbed down to a meer simmering underneath his skin. (Or, in the case of the anger-inflicted scar on his face, above the skin, for all to see and mock.) There is no sudden reply, because he just can't feel a sudden reply. It's not to say he doesn't feel for her; it's to say he's done with the world, discarded in design, and he can't and won't force words from his lips anymore. He doesn't want to suffer.

"You've helped, really." He may be dying, but she was still living, so words like these meant something to her. She wasn't listening to his thanks, though – she wasn't interested in being acknowledged in the minds of anyone but herself, including Mello. Things would be too heavy if that were the case. Her reply is simple, a matter of professional course.

"It was nothing." How sad, he thinks. What should be the last time they talk, and she's lying. At the very least, he draws satisfaction upon the fact he can see through this facade, and simply moves along – or he would, if he knew what to say. The reciever is pressed firmly against his ear for comfort, and he catches what sounds like menial sobbing, the type that no doubt would escalate as soon as the goodbyes are done.

"Don't cry now. You're so close. Don't cry now." She'll ruin it all – heck, she'd already ruined everything. But she was still a soldier in his eyes; strong, brave, a contradiction to all social and gender roles ever placed on the surface of humanity, something he was mocked for, something that both shamed him and yet made him feel proud from the acceptance he'd put towards it. As much pressure as it was, as much as he had to live up to, he didn't need to anymore. He was dying. What was there to hide now? There was no longer a need to maintain a reputation of his own, likewise there was no reason for her to hide from him (not like she ever did anyway).

And he's right; she's so so close to tears, something is telling her to slam the reciever down now, all the self-pride and respect trying to console her. And then there's Mihael, and Mihael tries too, because he's watched her build up the whole thing and will not allow it to collapse like some toy tower of time-worn building blocks. "Don't cry, don't cry."

So she cries because she doesn't want to, and the world doesn't take personal requests from anyone. And it's because the world doesn't take personal requests from anyone, he knows, he's been there, so he's not there for her now.

"I'm sorry, I don't want to –"

"I love you." He is who he is, he can't be anyone else, but he can offer her a hand now, in his moment of death. His feelings are a trainwreck, his physical state demolished and malnourished, much like his mentality, but he grasps for her. He's not sane, he's not even a good man, he's nothing compared to what she is but this is all he's got and he won't have it for long. It's a dive he takes, a risk that, unlike so many gambles, he's not used to trying. It'll be the first and last time, they know.

"Understand, please understand." He's begging with her now, begging because he can do no more. Her voice breaks and those eloquently-practiced business lines are replaced by Hal.

"I, I understand –" She knows, he knows she does, she just doesn't want to accept it. And all the while, he's chanting in the back of his mind 'don't resent me, don't resent me, don't resent me', not for his own gain (for once in his life, for once because there's a first time for everything and he doesn't have time for everything any longer) but for the sake of her, so that she won't waste her own remaining time on him, so that he won't cause burden even after death. It's a last gesture of compassion from a man who is human.

"I love you, so much." She speaks again. She would explain her love to him, she would tell him why she hates that she loves him and how she hates him and how that makes him who he is, and she'd do this all knowing she'd live on, but she can't because she knows he's going to die. More choked sobs, rubbing a sweaty hand against her face, trying to pull herself together by herself.

Everything is okay. Halle understands, Halle is carrying out the plan as decided by the two. Tomorrow, everything will play out as it should, and that's okay. He's happy, though; he's just happy he's had a chance to sort out some issues, to speak what is now spoken but what will never be practiced. As long as they both understand, he'll have no regrets. But he can only go so far, because well, he's a dying man, so there's a click and the line is cut.

She can make up the ending to the story herself, because now, he's going to fight.


End file.
